A Tale of Two Wars
by GingerIntelligence
Summary: "Because it's clear cut and it's ambiguous, it's painful and it's actually calming, on both sides, and it's the most complicated moment of Sherlock's life, because it's just too simple." Sherlock/John, nightmare!fic, minor bad language. Mild pre-slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Authors Note: I feel like I haven't been on this site in years.**

**I originally wrote this for an anonymous prompter over at the Livejournal community 'sherlockbbc_fic', an anonymous (or not) meme for the BBC series. I wrote it all at once today, suddenly seized by the urge to be creative in a new fandom, and proved to myself that a girl's attention span is always better than she believes. xDD**

**I'm quite proud of it, actually, I kind of think that this is one of my best pieces in a while – once you factor in how BLOODY AMAZING BUT BRAIN-TAXINGLY TABOO-FILLED writing any Sherlock incarnation is (I don't think anyone knows exactly how to pin down what his problem or difference or diagnosis is, and what this means in relation to what he is able to feel for Watson, but it is in equal parts terrifying and very fun to tinker around with, because he is a completely different person in every mood, and a fic writer can put a man in any mood he/she wants to *YAY* :DD). Seeing what I can do with words on such a **_**deep**_** level (for fic, for me, it is uncharacteristically deep, as I usually save that for releasing emotion or schoolwork, usually poetry, so yeah. Different) has inspired me enough that I can now carry on with my supposedly H/C but slightly fluff!tastic Lenny/Yuki (Casualty) fanfic, once I have a rough idea for plot for the next chapter. Some musical lyrics are needed to stir something up on that one.**

**^^ The above ramble is just for anyone interested in writing-mindset!geekery/analysis, and for anyone that was curious about 'Doctors Heal the Hurting'. Ignore as applicable, hehe! ;D ^^**

**Oh yeah, the original prompt was: **_**John has nightmares. Sherlock tries to comfort/look after him, without really knowing how.**_

**It was relatively simple, but then my brain fell in love and ran away from me. *oops***

**Hope you enjoy 'A Tale of Two Wars'. ;PP**

**P.S. I absolutely LOVE this show. The plot, the actors (Martin Freeman is just the PERFECT Watson, he just IS Watson – plus he's weirdly attractive, I kind of keep staring at his jumper, lol), the script is BEAUTIFUL, the camera-work, the onscreen text, the shameless slash (sorry, ambiguity regarding sexuality *coughs*), it is all stunning. And I can still laugh my face off throughout, too. This nerd has found her perfection. *has babies with the BBC***

**Uhum ... yes. The fanfiction. Yes.**

**Chapter 1**

The first time it happens, Sherlock's long limbs are sprawled around him on the low sofa, one hand splayed across his face and the other clinical at his own pulse point, the steady thrum of his heart keeping time to his thoughts. The noise, the vibration, is uniform, and comes solely from him, consoling him in a room of perpetual clutter (and yes, the clutter came from him too, he is aware, he will clean it up one day, he will, but he's a busy man). His eye is open against his palm and he sees shadowed red from where it is pressed against his pale skin, blood vessels startlingly visible in a dark space; one image and one sound in the material world, and thousands in his mind, millions of numbers and faces and perhaps even _motives_ this time, in the past and the future and speeding down neurones.

It's not enough, though. Concentration could still be so much better. To shift his position could jeopardise the entire process, but he _needs_ a nicotine patch. Perhaps.

He swings those gangly legs of the side of the chair, rising and striding quickly through the room and up the stairs, heading for the small bathroom adjacent to John's room, knowing there must be a packet there. He clearly remembers storming in there one morning, happier than he would have thought possible at a sudden revelation in relation to that rabid dog case that had ended so anti-climatically; flung the door open and almost skipped in, shouting in glee at John, stood there clad in only tracksuit bottoms, shaving foam and an expression of utter incomprehension. Water from his shower was still glistening on his chest, and there was a red cut bleeding a path through the white cream on his face, a nick from the razor generated by the surprise of Sherlock's entry, no doubt. All Sherlock mentioned, though, was how much less grey John's hair looked when damp, before almost bellowing at the older man to come with him, _now John! A man's alibi could depend on it!_

"What?" John raised one eyebrow, the slight fear behind his eyes giving way to exasperation.

Sherlock had hopped on the spot and chucked the box of patches in the general direction of the sink, shouting again until it could have been just noise for all he knew. John was going to move _now_, or Sherlock was just going to get louder. 

The concept seems vaguely childish to him but he overlooks it, locating the box in the dust behind the sink and looking inside eagerly. It's empty, and inevitability and disappointment dawn in equal measure – of course it's empty; the encounter was about a month ago, he's probably plundered its contents since then whilst in one of his frequent dazes, wherein the physical world was not offering up any conclusive evidence, and so was separate from him.

He hopes that there are some lurking at the centre of his experiment in the kitchen, otherwise tonight will be a wasted endeavour. He skulks past John's door, the nicotine craving grounding him enough that when a panicked shout echoes from behind the wood, he registers it.

The brief notion that John is being attacked is entertained in equal parts of horror and glee, because if he is it probably has something to do with the case; the fiend behind the door could very well be the villain he's currently seeking, and this could be his moment to catch him. John is a good man and has suffered great pain, and tolerates Sherlock's idiosyncrasies with almost inhuman patience, occasionally even appearing to like him _because_ of rather than in spite of them. No desperate robber is going to cause him any harm when the detective is nearby, and so he swings the door open with his eyes wide and his fists clenched.

John is asleep.

He is thrashing slightly, sweating and shaking, but he is definitely asleep. A nightmare. Sherlock knows his flatmate misses much of the war, misses the adrenaline of the chase, the sense of fulfilling a duty, the dull throb of delivering just a little justice. It is a war, however, a horrendous mental and physical conflict, and Sherlock knows he'd never manage there, if only for the barrage of noises and colours and feelings, of substance. He knows John doesn't miss the shouting and the blasts, the blood of his friends staining the ground as he bandages frantically at horrific injuries, whatever meagre supplies he has so ineffective his position as a doctor begins to look ironic. He knows that staring into a man's eyes, and shooting him dead because it will protect a whole ward of already injured children, remorseless but knowing deep in you that he believes his actions are justified, that in some twisted way, he is here in the same supposed act of duty as you, must be permanently scarring. He knows that there are terrors that will never leave John as long as he lives.

He cannot fathom these ideas, cannot see them clearly, as he was never present. He can't feel the emotions he knows they invoke in John either; he feels emotion, obviously, but doesn't always understand why or how, doesn't always _link_ the barrage of feeling with the situation, sometimes senses that the link between the two is strange to others. He knows for a fact that glee in the face of four suicides is not normal by any standard, but it's not as sinister as it sounds. As difficult as emotions are to him, he's not a bad man, and he does have the capacity to care. He may not feel John's pain as another might, but he can imagine it vaguely, and is perfectly open to admitting he feels anxious for his friend. Because, as far as the definition extends, Sherlock thinks that it is what fits John best. His understanding of the concept is limited, but John is most definitely his friend.

Standing there, hesitant in the doorway, he looks on at a friend in distress and feels that vague anxiety clarify and tug slightly at him; some foreign pocket of tenderness opens up somewhere, and an echo of empathy grows louder.

John is still now, brow relaxing slowly into the average vacancy of untroubled sleep. If this instance is in anyway indicative of usual behaviour, his nightmares are violent but brief. Sherlock hopes his conclusion isn't erroneous, and not just for the sake of a damaged ego.

The breaths of the room are even, a wave of relief crashes over both of its inhabitants, and a tall, pale man slinks out of the door with only about seven backward glances.

The second time it happens, it's somehow even more difficult.


	2. Chapter 2

_The second time it happens, it's somehow even more difficult._

**Chapter 2**

Screaming can be heard from upstairs, loud and incessant and _John sounds absolutely petrified. _Mrs Hudson is staying with her sister in Bedfordshire, so the screaming carries on, as no motherly old busybody bustles in to cease it. The screaming carries on.

Sherlock jerks his face up from its place on the kitchen table where lidded, almost tired eyes had been gazing at vials and beakers with glassy intent. He rises abruptly, sloshing hydrochloric acid over his right hand, and sits with his back straight, listening as the shouts fill him slowly with biting affection for the other man, an affection he now has no choice but to acknowledge, considering its insistence to crop up whenever he glances in John's direction. Quickly, he stands and makes to exit the kitchen, only stopping at the sink to wash away the burning acid because John is a doctor, and he seems to have enough on his plate at the moment without attempting to treat his bull-stubborn flatmate when he only has one layer of skin left on his bony hands. Looking down as he scrubs quickly, he notices with slight distaste that the liquid is searing patches out of the leather strap of his watch, fizzing slightly. As fond as he is of the watch, however, he does have the time on his mobile, and the watch itself is an intentionally expensive gift from Mycroft; he drops it into the beaker of hydrochloric acid as he almost runs from the kitchen, already eager to see what state it'll be in when he returns.

He vaults the stairs two at a time, and he could tell you accurately exactly what percentages of his brain are annoyed, panicked and apprehensive, but there's a man screaming like his skin's on fire in the room above, and so he deems this analysis irrelevant for the time being.

Opening the door to John's room he runs in and straight to the foot of the bed, too worried to pause in the doorway as he had eleven days ago. He applauds himself for his bravery in entering the room and his human intention to help his friend, but stalls and exhales shakily when he realises he has no idea what to do.

He's not going to _touch_ John. He refuses to coo over him. Any other options evade him, and he fists his hands in his hair, hopeless. It shouldn't be so frustratingly, so achingly upsetting to see another person in this state, but it is, because for once there's a dilemma, a dilemma he has knowledge of, and he is powerless.

And John Watson put up with far too much from him without _being left like that_ being added to the list.

Sherlock runs his fingers down his own cheekbones and hooks his hands round the back of his neck, staring at the wallpaper in front of him rather than the man slightly below it, writhing and yelling and sweating as if back in the sweltering heat of Afghanistan. He doesn't know how to help but knows he wants to, knows that if he doesn't he's a horrible person. A clear head is what's needed to devise a plan of action, a gentle and effective means of waking and calming John without overstepping any of the boundaries that keep him comfortable around the other man. Unfortunately, a clear head is difficult to establish when the person you care the most about in the material world is lying in front of you, semi-conscious and terrified, limbs jerking as if in seizure and throat hoarse with vocal pain.

Screams are difficult to ignore.

He's seen enough banal television, enough hideous soap operas to know that the designated societal protocol for scenarios such as this was heavy physical affection; a gentle hand on the face, whispered assurances that it was okay and that it was him (_what good will it do him knowing it's me? That's not even comforting in the slightest_) and that it was just a dream, shushing noises in an attempt to quiet the sufferer. The characters would envelop one another in a large hug once the sleeper was fully awake, and he or she would sob into the other's shoulder until their tears were depleted and they were sufficiently exhausted to fall asleep. The supporter, the comforting party, would look tortured as they were gripped onto tightly, and would stroke the others hair, kissing the top of their head if they were a parent or a potential romantic attachment.

Well, _that_ wasn't going to happen.

Sherlock releases his throat from his grasp before the nails puncture the skin, suddenly realising that his grip on his own flesh had become painful. He sits gingerly on the edge of the bed by John's feet, and watches him lash out increasingly violently, kicking accidentally at Sherlock's slim hip. Somehow, the terrors he sees are even worse. Dimly aware that at least he's got the tortured facial expression down pat, he bites his lip. _Sociopath_ is a veiled, ambiguous term, though it can be generally defined as a person with difficulty empathising with others and a limited understanding of emotion that results in this supposed lack of care. This, apparently, is the root of an inability to or desire not to conform to legal or societal norms. These tropes all hold true for Sherlock, in one way or another, but that doesn't mean that they are constant standards for every situation and person he'll ever come across. At the end of the day, 'sociopath' is more than just a synonym for 'cold-hearted bastard'. 'Sociopath' is just a term.

John's thrashing now, so violently that he's going to hurt himself in a minute, and that really won't do, so Sherlock accidentally forgets to analyse everything _everywhere_ and just lunges, grabbing John's forearms and pinning them down to the bed either side of his head. His eyes fly open at the contact, and stares, eyes so wide and unseeing that even Sherlock is unnerved for a moment. He simply stares at John, because any of the cliché TV phrases he could employ are in equal parts untrue, hopelessly sappy and downright patronising. Whispering that it was all fine was a lie, was an insult to the fact that John was having the nightmare in the first place; if someone started leaning over _him_, repeatedly saying "Shh!" in the midst of a horrific night-time encounter, he'd probably spit in their face and scream that he'd be as fucking vocal as he liked, _thankyouverymuch!_

He refuses to patronise John.

And so he just stares, trying to keep a little of his usual intensity out of his gaze, softening the corners of his eyes even as his mouth tightens, uncomfortable. He doesn't know what he's doing. His hands are still strong on John's arms, holding him hard and heavy down onto the bed, the other man's chest rising and falling sharply as he tries to regain his breathing. It's unintentionally intimate, and Sherlock hates it. He doesn't like that he's touching John, doesn't like that it seems dominant when he's trying to soothe, doesn't like not knowing if it's going to work, if it's going to help. He's still half convinced that his mere presence is going to trigger a fresh round of screams. He's almost as petrified as John.

Painfully slowly, trembling violently on every exhale, John's breaths slow, his eyes first relaxing then focusing. Sherlock relaxes his grip, glancing away and then forcing himself to hold the older man's gaze. He carefully schools his expression to be as blank and comforting as possible, as he struggles not to cry out himself. John's eyes flicker over stress-mussed hair, twitching eyebrows, a long, elegant nose and bitten lips, before they lock onto grey-blue orbs, uncertain and intense all at once. The detective studies his expression as covertly as possible, fingers automatically light against the skin of the underside of forearms, without even considering the gesture. The detective almost hears something click into place behind John's eyes, and watches in apprehension as the soldier (not ex-soldier, _soldier_) is the one to make the deduction.

His face crumples in on itself, emotion taking him over even more harshly in the light of consciousness than in the false warmth and darkness of sleep.

"Sherlock," he chokes, before turning his face into the pillow and gripping the mattress, sobs shaking his suddenly small body.


	3. Chapter 3

"_Sherlock," he chokes, before turning his face into the pillow and gripping the mattress, sobs shaking his suddenly small body. _

**Chapter 3**

He's crying. Real, wracking sobs that shake his whole form, hot salty tears sliding down his cheeks as he tries to stifle any more shouts, and he's hiding it all in his pillow. Hiding it all from Sherlock. John doesn't want Sherlock to see him cry.

And Sherlock knows that though it is mainly a case of Being Ashamed, and of Protecting His Masculinity, it is at least partly a case of Making It Easier For The Flatmate.

And because of this, because he can see in the curve of the other man's back and the set of his shoulders that he's adapting to Sherlock's social leprosy even whilst in the throes of a breakdown, because he _knows_, Sherlock carefully hooks his arms under John and pulls him slowly up into a hug. Because John is his friend, and John is so strong, and because he hates hugging people but John probably doesn't.

And when John knows (because he _always_ knows, always figures out, can always just _see_ what Sherlock's trying to do with him) that this is really happening and that Sherlock is going to let it happen, going to engage and try and probably not vomit, he winds him arms round the taller man and clutches desperately at the soft linen of his shirt back, his face trembling against his sharp collar bones. Sherlock is gripping back, one hand round his back and up onto his shoulder, the other arm up under his arm and resting gently on his neck, the pulse point thrumming with sorrow as his own hums with nervous energy.

It isn't pleasant, but somehow, it is inexplicably warming, the knowledge that they have this new unspoken agreement, yet another facet of mutual respect and understanding to add to their acquaintance. John trusts him to feel his tears, and Sherlock trusts John to accept the inner turmoil that comes with his generous hug. It isn't pleasant at all.

John isn't wearing a shirt, his skin flushed and clammy with cold sweat, and he smells, of sleep and sweat and possibly tea. He's sniffling against Sherlock's lapels, completely undignified, and every now and then he nestles further into the nook between shoulder and neck, as though he'd like to hide forever in hard, white angles and soft, malleable skin, some perfect human representation of simplicity, minimalism, monochrome. Because it's clear cut and it's ambiguous, it's painful and it's actually _calming_, on both sides, and it's the most complicated moment of Sherlock's life, because it's just too simple.

One hand is actually in John's hair, a thumb swiping at the stretch just above his too-big ears, the other fingers unmoving and closer to the scalp. And sometime later, still with salty water dribbling half-heartedly down into his shirt, still with a now cold male fisting his hands in the material behind him, Sherlock feels the crying man smile through his tears, his ridiculous chapped lips curving the tiniest bit in the crook of his neck, his breaths slower but heavier.

Sherlock lowers his head and pauses with his lips millimetres away from grey tresses, thinking that he's challenged enough barriers for one night.

**END**

**Read and review, 'coz it keeps me squeeing !**

**(Oh dear lord, I am officially a fangirl. YAY!)**

**xPP**

**Love Ging xx**


End file.
